


memento mori

by sugandt



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Demons, Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Canon-Typical Violence, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Golden Deer Route, Horror, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mentioned Blue Lions Students (Fire Emblem), Mythical Beings & Creatures, Post-War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-12
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:08:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25854877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sugandt/pseuds/sugandt
Summary: "You were so precious to me. We promised to die together— romantic, don't you think?" Sylvain smells of rot, looming closer and letting his voice drop to a low timbre. His face begins to melt like a candle, lit from within."Demons do not dream," Felix says simply, feeling faint. He shuts the door in Sylvain's face, "Goodbye, Sylvain."Caught in a post-war depression, Duke Felix Fraldarius has resigned himself to a life of solitude. Sylvain Gautier, dead man walking and human-turned-demon, appears on Felix's doorstep during the Lone Moon, looking for a friend.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 6
Kudos: 62





	memento mori

**i. the duke**

A demon appears at Felix Fraldarius’ doorstep on the precipice of the Lone Moon.

After nearly half a year since the war ended and the Adrestian empire surrendered to Kingdom forces, Felix has developed a habit of sleeping in. He knows it’s unlike him, and it should not be a habit he succumbs to for long. And yet, sabotaged mornings have become his regular, for no one would dare to awaken him. Since Rodrigue passed, Felix is the head of the house, which means he gives the orders, not takes them.

“Duke Fraldarius,” comes a voice from outside of the bedroom door, one of the maids loyal to the Fraldarius line, “it’s the afternoon. Would you like me to bring you some tea?”

“That’s not necessary,” Felix answers, and pushes himself up. He runs a hand through his outgrown hair, fingers getting caught in the knots that have formed from tossing and turning. The pillows and duvet are made of the softest feathers, so it makes it difficult to get out of bed most mornings. A looking glass props itself up to his right, but he cannot stand to see himself, so he passes by without a second glance and sheds his sleeping clothes on his way to bathe.

He can brew his own tea, he decides. More, he can spend his days within the estate walls, answering letters and declining marriage proposals and even cleaning the floors. Perhaps he will begin to wake up earlier, and not feel ill when he sees his reflection. He sinks deeper into the basin, letting his eyes drift shut as the lukewarm water fills his ears and covers his face.

He’s never liked being taken care of to such an extent.

Over the following week, Felix dismisses the internal staff, thinking nobody needs to be in his home when he is capable of cooking and cleaning for himself. He’s always preferred solitude, save for his childhood. But he’s not a child anymore.

On the day Sylvain Gautier, dead man walking, arrives, it’s almost evening time. Felix can’t recall the date, and he’s busy reading a recipe update from Lysithea when a chill runs down his spine. Lysithea likes to write about sweets more than she likes to write about her crests, but she’s always been that way. Felix takes care to fold the letter properly before rising from the desk.

The Fraldarius household has been rather quiet since the dismissal of his staff, but never eerily so. Now, Felix can hear his blood pumping and his steady breathing and the subtle flutter of the curtains. Something is wrong. It’s as if the Earth has tilted backward on its axis, off-kilter. The air tastes different, Felix thinks when he inhales through his mouth, replicating one of Shamir’s stealth techniques.

Yet he’s compelled to leave Rodrigue’s— his— study, and find the source of the silence. He’s not stupid, not completely, so he takes an iron bar from beside the fireplace. He mentally curses himself for leaving all his swords in the training grounds instead of having one on his hip. At the monastery, he was never this unprepared. That should be remedied soon, he thinks and files the idea away somewhere in his mind where it would be surprising if he picked it up again.

Further exploration of the estate yields… nothing. The main rooms are all empty, untouched for months, with a thin layer of dust Felix swings the front door open and waiting there is a grotesque, eldritch creature. A walking horror straight from Hell, come with the intention of eating him alive— Felix can tell by the way it focuses its gaze on him. It’s salivating and licking what’s left of its lips, ready to pounce and turn Felix into its next meal. How distasteful. Felix can’t imagine Fraldarius’ blood is sweet.

A piece of skin, bloody and infected, slides down its torso before landing on the steps with a wet sound. It disintegrates upon its descent, and the scent of sulfur rises to assault Felix’s nose. His face contorts into an expression of disgust. From the ground up, Felix’s eyes take in all approximately eight feet of what he can only describe as a monstrosity.

“Geez,” the thing says, rubbing the back of its neck, “you really know how to make a guy wait, huh?”

Felix takes a calculated moment to decide his next move, as the creature does not give any intention of attacking immediately. Shall he hit it with the iron bar and run? Surely it will chase after him, close the distance with ease, and take a direct bite from his throat. Fall to his knees and surrender? It will break his neck and feast upon his remains, sucking Felix’s bones clean when he’s done!

“What the fuck,” Felix says eloquently and his body instinctually moves to a striking position. The abomination looks down upon him, towering at least two feet above, and Felix does not trust himself to say he’s not afraid, “What part of Hell did you crawl out of?”

The beast grins and rests its forearm on the pillar beside itself. Thick, black liquid pours from its mouth, down its chin and into the hole of its torso. Felix steals a glance, merely half of a second, to observe the hole and— he can see right through it!

“Asking such questions already,” it laughs— it has the gall to laugh—, “ I didn’t get the luxury of going to Hell. Besides, they would spit me back out.”

“Save the melodrama,” says Felix, grip tightening on the iron bar and looking back up its corpse-like face, “That’s literally not true. Hell’s purpose is to host atrocities like you.”

“Hah! Take that up with the Goddess; she’ll disagree,” the creature’s sincerity staggers Felix, who gives him the most incredulous look he can muster. If his knees were not threatening to tremble, he would have felt refreshed by the words. It’s not often Felix meets non-believers in the Kingdom.

“If you do not fear her divine punishment, I see no issue with retrieving my sword,” Felix tests the waters of taunting the monster.

“Please do! I’ll be patient while I wait, Duke Fraldarius.” It says Felix’s surname like it has a sour taste to it, but the way it smiles is dreadful and sweet. Felix takes a step back.

“What makes you think I am the Duke?”

“It’s certainly not your brother, and I recall hearing rumors of the previous Duke sacrificing himself for the King… how noble!” its hand frames its chin, mocking a considerate pose, “So that leaves you.”

Every muscle in Felix’s body tenses. First, this creature shows up unexpectedly, and now it’s preparing to lecture him about his fallen family? It must be Felix’s personal demon, fashioned out of Hell’s tendrils exclusively for him. It looks around idly, blackened eyes taking in the architecture of the estate before looking back to Felix. Its expression tells Felix it wants a grand tour of the grounds, so at the end, it can drape Felix over the chaise lounge and suck his veins dry, or whatever it is demons do.

Maybe Felix is making that last part up.

“I don’t have a brother,” says Felix, ignoring the way it’s sizing him up, then promptly wonders why he’s arguing with a beast. Dimitri finds his way to the forefront of Felix’s mind, snarling hoglike and on the edge of insanity. He pushes the boar king out of his thoughts.

The demon’s confidence drops for a moment. Its face falls, and it looms closer as if trying to get a better look at Felix, who takes a step back at the same time.

“You’re lying,” the demon says, looking Felix up and down, “you are not Glenn Fraldarius.”

“How do you—,” Felix cuts himself off, raises the iron bar, and hopes desperately for it to turn into a blade. Of course, it knows Glenn, it’s here to torment Felix and this is the perfect way of doing so!

“I died before him, so I didn’t get to see it go down. You know how battle is.”

What is he— it— even talking about?! Is it implying that it fought alongside Glenn at Duscur?

“I know better than you,” Felix feels his stomach braid into knots. He spent five long years fighting for the kingdom with only a dead father to show for it. How can this creature possibly know what that is like?

The beast doesn’t try to argue when it nods, “You’re right. But I know what it’s like to die in battle.”

Felix remembers the taste of Dorothea’s silver sword and the spell she cast upon him. Her blade had cut through his flesh as if it were butter or the tenderest of cuts. It had left him unable to continue forward, bleeding out on the cobblestone in front of her opera house. In the moment of remembrance, he recalls the certainty of death. The smell of acid from her spell’s leftovers, and the earthy scent of wet rock where his face was turned into the ground, gasping from the pain. He scowls.

“Get out.”

The demonic creature begins to twitch like it’s possessed but doesn’t put up any reservations. It must know it has overstayed its welcome, which never existed in the first place.

“When may I return?” there’s an edge of humor in its voice as if it’s making a mockery of the question. It’s head involuntarily jerks sideways, exposing a rotting piece of bone.

“Don’t bother,” Felix’s eyes narrow, “Unless you want me to put you down.”

“I’ll come when I want to be put down, then. Goodbye for now, Mister Fraldarius,” it says as a farewell and then saunters away, leaving Felix dumbstruck in the foyer.

“Duke,” Felix corrects to the empty foyer.

When it walks, the soles of the boots leave black, smoking marks on the ground in their wake. Felix examines them closer after the demon has disappeared, and the only thing that confirms that the demon was not a hallucination is the thick scent of smoldering grass.

A demon appears at Felix Fraldarius’ doorstep on the precipice of the Lone Moon, and it’s gone as soon as it came.

Margrave Gautier had two sons. This much is common knowledge.

One was Miklan, who Felix remembers coming around often enough to recall the placement of the pinkish scars on his face. He was brutish even as a child, with a short temper that even Rodrigue could not quell. He traveled to Fraldarius territory often, Ingrid towing along for the ride. Miklan gave Felix eyes that suggested it would be most preferable if Felix dropped dead, then grabbed Glenn’s arm hard enough to leave red welts and demanded they train until dinner.

Glenn was similar, quick-witted with a sharp tongue, but he was always kind to Felix. My Achilles’ heel, Glenn would say to him, teaching him proper form when gripping his sword. But Felix does not want to think of him, so he thinks of the other Gautier boy.

The second son was never named. He died in childbirth, and mourned an immense amount, for he had a Crest and Miklan did not. It was only natural for those with Crests to be valued more than those without.

There was a bright red mark on Miklan’s right cheek that day, hidden mostly by the way his skin glowed from the cold weather. But Glenn saw it, and he saw the way that Margrave Gautier’s hands curled into an angry fist when Miklan went on his natural tirade, leather gloves creaking. Glenn looked the other way, jutting his chin out. Best not to upset the margrave.

“I should have said something,” Glenn confessed many years later to Felix, who was not old enough to understand where Miklan’s rage stemmed from, who only knew that Miklan was one dimension of mean and loud and awful. But Glenn was just barely a child himself at the time, how could he blame himself for something so far out of his control? In response, Felix heaved another sob into the crook of Glenn’s neck and never thought about the second son again.

The next morning, Felix wakes up earlier than usual. Only one nightmare last night; the recurring one in which he’s defending Dimitri, but a sword finds its way through his torso and almost tears Felix’s coat. Dimitri falls back into Felix’s chest, and his white cloak becomes red from his blood. Felix is thrown off by Dimitri’s sudden appearance in his arms and feels an arrow pierce his shoulder, a lance takes out his right knee, an axe into his waist. Dedue transforms into a demonic beast, howling, and Felix wakes up to a bed soaked in sweat.

He changes his clothes and belatedly thinks that he should wash them soon, but it can wait until another day. Today he has important things to do, documents to find, and a dead father’s room to infiltrate.

Rodrigue’s room should be locked from the inside, but Felix leaves it unlocked for reasons unbeknownst to him. In the depths of his mind, he thinks it’s a form of reconciliation. As if Rodrigue has the authority to open the door himself and pull Felix into his arms, and… what a silly thought. He’s already dead. Forgiveness is futile.

His father always kept the most boring of books in his library, Felix thinks as he slumps over the reading chair, coughing as a plume of dust finds its way inside of his nose. It’s all records, dates, and history that Felix doesn’t mind reading, but they don’t cover the Tragedy. There are anecdotes from Rodrigue written in the margins that Felix chooses not to read.

Then he finds a diary, leatherbound and laced closed, untouched for what has to be a decade. He touches only the spine, and his finger picks up a gritty layer of dust. He’s seen this diary before. He imagines Glenn’s handwriting inside, filling up the thick pages with spilled ink and his most private of thoughts. Felix drops his hand by his side, not bothering to wipe his hand on his pants, and returns to the reading chair.

There’s nothing in the library that Felix can use, he discovers by midday. Rodrigue kept only one document from the Tragedy: Glenn’s certification of death. Still, in the thick envelope, it was delivered, the certificate has remained there since Felix can remember. The wax seal is nowhere to be found, but it’s irrelevant now.

Felix returns to the study, intending to compose a letter to Dimitri. It is certain that they will have a record of all who died in Duscur, though he’s not sure who they are. Somebody, somewhere in Fhirdiad, within the castle walls. He hopes. It’s been many moons since the last time he was in Fhirdiad, and that was to celebrate the end of the war. What reason did Felix have to celebrate?

A folder of documents arrives sometime later, with an extensive letter from the King himself enclosed. Felix stares at the immaculate handwriting on the outside that reads his full name, middle name Hugo included, and wonders if it was Archbishop Byleth who wrote it. He can’t decide if it was thoughtful of Byleth, or pathetic of Dimitri.

Dimitri’s handwriting was never this elegant in his youth, for he could never learn calligraphy the way Felix and Ingrid did. Even as a child, his grip would break the inkwell pen, his face would scrunch up as if he were trying not to cry, and his hand would be stained black for the following week. Ingrid would try to console him, and Felix would wipe up the ink, cradling Dimitri’s hand within his own. Felix almost grins at the memory. Almost.

Without reading it, he throws the letter upon the desk and dives into the Duscur documents.

It’s nearing midnight by the time Felix finishes. There’s an open notebook with his annotations written within it, an empty teacup without its saucer beside his pen, and he’s not any closer to finding out who the demon on his doorstep could be. He folds his arms, burying his face in the curve of his elbow.

Had he hallucinated the whole thing? Is he turning into the Dimitri from six years ago? Could he be in the process of becoming a feral animal capable of seeing the undead? Or could he be turning into the Dimitri from a year ago, plagued by solitude and crawling around on all fours, only appearing as human when he’s standing on his hind legs? How unfortunate that would be.

Felix groans, rising from the desk. His knees crack and his back burns from hunching over the papers, but he still crosses the room to the curtained windows. It’s a bad habit he picked up back at the academy; poor posture in class yet perfect posture in the training grounds. Mercedes used to pull on his shoulders, manually adjusting his posture with her soft, forceful grip. It’s because of her that Felix can still stand upright. He could write her a letter, but the Blue Lions reunion is in half a year, so he decides he will tell her in person.

In one motion, Felix pulls the drapes open, half expecting his personal demon to be on the other side of the glass, like a warped reflection of Felix’s insides. There’s nothing but darkness, the light from the room hardly illuminating the front steps. His open palm and forehead rest on the pane of glass, soaking up the cold. Even though he can’t see it, he knows there’s still snow outside, melting slowly as the season transitions. He remembers the light snowfall during his year at the academy, how different it was from the violent Faerghus winters. It was a different place. This feels like a different place.

He pulls away from the windowpane and retires to bed without tidying up after himself. In the dim candlelight of his room, he examines his face in the looking glass. Deep-set eyes in the center of brown-purple hollows, cheekbones pronounced with a sharper jawline from aging. A perpetual frown pulling at his lips. Tied back hair so black it glows navy in the light. Eyelids at half-mast, Felix uses his free hand to rub at his face. He looks like a ghost, haunting the halls of the Fraldarius estate, never to move on to the next life. It makes sense, actually, for it's been days since his last human contact, save those employed to take care of the land. Dreadful, he thinks, then blows out the candle.

Upon attempting to brew his tea a few days later, Felix discovers he had used the last of the Almyran pine needles. He frowns, peering into the tin and shaking it upside-down as if any spare needles will fall from the emptiness. If he had any idea where Claude is, he would send a letter. But he had disappeared somewhere beyond Fódlan’s borders some time ago, with dreams of uniting the continent. Felix thinks it to be a foolish dream, but there’s no harm in allowing him the chance to try, which is what Dimitri had the leniency to do, back in Derdriu. So long as Dimitri does his job, and Edelgard’s head remains torn from her body, Claude will remain in hiding until he’s ready to make his great return. As for Felix, he must sneak his way into town and find a tea leaves merchant.

As Felix discards the remaining few pine needles, he recalls tea with Claude, who once insisted on treating him for his birthday. He thinks of how Claude was guarded, a self-sabotaging man who cared not for others and only for his schemes and the Church’s secrets the most. He recalls those old memories of sitting across from Claude in the entrance hall twice a week for a few moons, the only thing between them an Almyran card game premised on wit and strategy, and a thick, palpable air. Claude’s scalding hot fingers on Felix’s shoulder as he leaned in and kissed him, messy and unpractised, and Felix didn’t have it in himself to pull back. He tasted like spice and it was, in a way, a private asylum in the purgatory that was the monastery.

One memory, in particular, sneaks its way into Felix’s reminiscing— Claude’s yellow cape on the floor of his bedroom, his eyes screwed shut in pleasure, and the resulting bruises on Felix’s knees. The way Claude’s pink tongue slipped out for just a moment, before sucking on his bottom lip. The way Felix’s insides were set aflame by the expression alone.

Felix grips the teacup so hard that it threatens to crack under his fingertips. He gingerly places it back down on the dining table.

Back in the day, Felix considered himself a self-sabotaging man as well.

The snow still melts, more of a muddy, wet sludge than a winter paradise and the wind chills him to his bones. In preparation for the cold and potential threats that he tends to imagine exist, Felix dons a thick cloak, a rapier, and boots that he doesn’t mind getting dirty. It would be faster if he took a horse, but he hasn’t been training lately, and his legs could use the work. His calves are starting to become tender, muscle weakening from disuse. Part of him likes it, the soft flesh a testimony to the war’s ending.

His thoughts are then interrupted. Standing alone in the open field near his estate is Felix’s demon.

It looks… oddly human. It is significantly shorter than last time, yet still uncomfortably tall, with at least a foot and some gone. Its skin no longer melts off its bones, and the hole in its stomach has closed up, stitched at the seams. Most of its face is put together, and the crimson colour of its hair is unmistakable. From the back, the demon looks like what Felix remembers Miklan looking like. But there’s no way it’s him. Of this, he has to be sure.

“You’re not Miklan,” Felix says as a greeting. The demon turns to face him, a splitting grin on its lips. It looks like a man if a man were part monster.

“I’m not,” he— Felix succumbs to its human-like appearance— agrees, “what are you doing out of your home? I thought you resigned yourself to seclusion.”

Felix ignores the comment. Recluses do not leave their home, isolated. Felix seldom leaves his home. There is a difference. Felix’s hand rests on the hilt of his sword, should he need to use it. The demon doesn’t move from his place, as if he doesn’t care for Felix’s defensive pose.

“I must go to the market,” says Felix dismissively, but loathe to admit that he feels obligated to speak to another person so he does not drive himself mad, “errands to run.”

“Without a guard?” The demon asks, looking around as if searching for Felix’s escort.

“A guard isn’t necessary when I can defend myself.”

“I would be inclined to think otherwise. You never know what sort of abnormalities hide in the daytime.”

Felix keeps his retort concealed behind his lips, despite how the demon goads him, trying to get under his skin. He should leave before that happens and his instincts to draw his sword take over. Never one to waste his energy on caring about the opinions of those he does not know, Felix begins to step away, hands dropping to his sides. The thing may be a demon, but today, he is the most unthreatening demon that Felix has ever met.

“Leaving already? Aren’t you going to, what was it you said? Put me down?”

“I don’t have time for this,” Felix says from between clenched teeth. He stamps a few paces away.

“Don’t let me keep you. Enjoy yourself, Duke Fraldarius,” the demon says with a soft laugh.

“Hold on now,” Felix pivots in place, “Where is this feigned kindness coming from?”

“Trying to butter you up,” he admits shamelessly, “If I may be so bold, may I ask a question?”

“You already did,” Felix says, and the demon gives him an incredulous look, which Felix almost lets his eyes roll at, “Go on.”

“Why did you request documents of the Tragedy of Duscur from your king?”

Your king. Felix feels violated at the very word. There’s no point in asking why the demon knows everything; Felix resigns to this fact. That’s must be the nature of demons, he thinks, especially when they’re made for him. Still, there’s a feeling of discomfort that crawls atop his skin, like his privacy has been violated.

“I believe you were there,” Felix sees no point in lying, “so I was trying to discern your name.”

“Curious,” the demon pauses in contemplation. He looks into the horizon behind Felix, or rather, through him, “It won’t be there. Check nobility birth records from the kingdom, or Glenn’s diary.”

Felix’s breath hitches. He’s thankful that it’s silent, unsure that he could deal with a demon laughing at him.

“Were you close to him?” Felix asks as nonchalantly as he can. He shouldn’t care. He doesn’t care, because it’s irrelevant. But he’s still asking for reasons unbeknownst to him. What if he was close to him?

“Nah. He didn’t know who I was until a few weeks before he died.”

“My turn to ask a question,” says Felix, shifting his weight on his heels, “Why have you come to Fraldarius if he is dead?”

“Glenn was the only person who was ever kind to me. Figured you might be one to show the same mercy, but you’ve proven yourself otherwise.”

“Oh,” says Felix, feeling like a pheasant that is acutely aware of a drawn arrow pointed at it. It brings him back to being a teenager, sitting alone at a table in the Blue Lions classroom, and how the others believed he was unaffected by emotion, only passionate about training and his distaste for knighthood.

“That’s all,” says the demon, pulling Felix back to reality, “I do hope you find your Almyran pine needles.”

“Can you read my mind?” Felix blurts out, frustrated by his demon’s omniscience. How he worms his way into the depths of Felix’s mind to bring out his worst attributes.

“Of course not,” he grins, smug, then points to Felix’s chest, index finger dangerously close to touching his coat. Felix casts his eyes down, trying to gauge the distance between his front and the demon’s hand while the demon continues, “The stench is all over you. Also, there are needles on your cloak.”

Felix brushes them off, the tips of his ears turning pink. Did a demon truly fluster him? When he looks back up, the demon has vanished, without any flaming footprints to be found. An improvement from last time, Felix thinks to himself.

In the marketplace, he finds Galatea produce, an empty-handed tea merchant, and Alliance refugees. Hilda Goneril, tucked into her corner of the square, is selling frivolous, handmade accessories. Catching a glimpse of braided, baby-blue hair, Felix sees she’s there with her betrothed, Marianne von Edmund. Fate, though he doesn't believe much in it, must be on his side. What are the chances of Felix thinking of Claude, and then meeting two of his former allies in the same day?

He pretends not to spot them, and in doing so, there’s a flash of deep, scarlet red in his peripheral. Felix turns his head, trying to catch the colour, but it’s gone. Washed away, drowning in the deep Kingdom blue. Half-expecting to see a banner depicting the Crest of Seiros replacing his own territory’s flag, he looks up to the sky. There, the Crest of Fraldarius banner flutters in the breeze, like it always has.

Felix doesn’t speak to the refugees until it’s Hilda who recognizes him, despite the hood on his cloak. She prances over, her skirts rustling noisily as she does so. By the look on her face, Felix can tell that she must remember him as an animal, an untamed, lone wolf ready to bite at the prospect of danger. In this case, danger has pink hair held back by a heart-embroidered headband, and long, polished nails.

She smiles like it takes a level of difficulty, or like she’s teaching herself how to do it properly after a long time of being at war; unpractised and hesitant. But perhaps it's that she remembers Felix’s short fuse and his intolerance of small talk.

“Felix!” Hilda clasps her hands together as she exclaims his name, her voice perpetually laced with the undertones of sarcasm, “or is it Duke Fraldarius now?”

“Hilda,” he calls her by her first name, voice neutral, and though he should call her Miss Goneril, he can’t shake the feeling that it would feel odd on his tongue.

They exchange pleasantries, as proper nobles do, though it feels more like playing the part of a noble in a low-budget theatre production. Around a downcast expression, Hilda expresses pity for his father, having heard about the event some time ago. She doesn’t know the truth of Rodrigue’s death, that much is clear, but Felix won’t be the one to correct her. So he thanks her for her pity, though they both know it’s one-sided.

She leads him closer to her setup, and once there. Marianne gives him a modest greeting. He remembers her as a timid, anxious girl. Now, she looks him in the eyes and even offers a small smile, which is an improvement from the Marianne he remembers.

Hilda fidgets with the hem of her skirt, as she jumps at the chance to recall the battle at Gronder. More importantly, how she fought tooth and nail to save Dimitri, of all people. She, Felix cannot fathom how or why, saw the sliver of humanity left in him, and threw herself into the Adrestian army.

They’ve never talked about it before.

Felix remembers it in bits and pieces. At the time, he thought Hilda did something so foolish and stupid, and they would both be killed. But then she came back, drenched in blood that was certainly not all her own, Dimitri’s limp body thrown over her shoulder. Blood dripped down her fingers, her jaw, her collarbone. She dropped him in Dedue’s arms, trembling. His eyepatch was missing.

“You owe us for this one,” she said, trying to shake the blood off her hands, to no avail. They must have been stained.

“Hilda…” Ingrid used a broken lance to support herself as she limped over to her, wincing as she did so, “Thank you.”

“Finally,” Hilda sighed, “my efforts are being appreciated.”

And then she was gone, Freikugel replacing Dimitri on her shoulder, mumbling something about a dainty flower.

In the present, Felix lets her get close enough to fashion a silver brooch into his coak. He’s no longer the same cagey boy he used to be. Its sparkling head is thrown back in a depiction of a lion roaring, and it has deep blue sapphires for eyes. The accessory is small and simple, and Felix quite likes it.

“Thanks for not killing us back there,” she says, her touch lingering on the brooch.

Felix thinks he should be the one gifting her with something. She brought back Dimitri— what banal, commonplace object could compare to that? But he doesn’t say anything, voice tangled and knotted somewhere deep in his throat. He blinks once, twice.

Then, she slips a handful of pine needles into a pouch and folds her hand over his.

“Heard you speaking with that tea merchant,” Hilda confesses around a sly grin, “next time I write to Claude, I’ll request some more.”

“Thanks,” Felix says curtly, not meaning for it to sound rude, so he tries to soften the blow by continuing, “There’s a lions reunion. Horsebow Moon.”

“What about it?” Hilda starts to polish another brooch, this one gold, and an eyebrow goes up. The insufferable thing about Hilda has always been that she will make one spell everything out for her, to embarrass them. And now Felix finds himself caught in that very trap.

“Are you coming, or not?”

“We’ll consider it,” says Hilda, giving Felix the impression that she will not consider it, and they will not be attending. He conveniently leaves out the fact that Dimitri would be overjoyed to see their former allies. Hilda’s eyes dart to Marianne as they have a mental, silent conversation.

“I think it would be fun,” Marianne says, “if we’re formally invited.”

“Yeah,” Felix says, reluctant to admit to himself that his chat with them brings him back to solid ground, for a few moments.

There’s a clunk of metal, and then an arm around his shoulder, hot like the armor they’re wearing has been baking in the sun all day.

“There you are,” croons the familiar voice of Felix’s demon, entirely too close for his liking.

“What are you doing?” Felix instinctively jerks away, but the armor keeps him locked in place without any trouble.

“Who’s this?” Hilda asks, her tone bordering salaciousness.

“Felix’s betrothed,” the demon answers, “or dearest friend. What do you call it these days?”

Hilda’s grin seems to split her face, “Felix, you sly dog! Engaged, all this time, and didn’t think to tell us?”

“You’re getting married?” Marianne’s eyes positively gleam.

“No,” Felix says, at the same time the demon says, “Next spring!”

“So romantic” coos Hilda, “a duke and his knight in shining armor!”

“It’s not—“

“Unfortunately, Felix and I must be taking our leave. It seems he has forgotten a very important meeting with a certain margrave— you know how he is.”

Marianne nods in understanding, and Felix feels so brutally betrayed. Hilda pouts.

“Oh, already?” She sifts through the jewelry for a moment, before plucking a gold band from a small, discounted pile, “Well, take this. Now, you two can have matching accessories from us!”

“Thank you, Miss Goneril, Miss Edmund. Hold this for me, Felix?” the demon slips the ring into Felix’s jacket. Felix feels like his shoulders have burned down to his bones.

“Our pleasure,” Marianne smiles.

“We won’t keep you any longer,” Hilda says, “nice to meet you, …?”

“Sylvain,” says the demon, bowing in her direction, and then Marianne’s, “Gautier.”

Felix imagined it would feel different than this. This is… it’s not satisfying. At all. It is as if everything has become even less clear, the puzzle shifting to a jigsaw puzzle with half of the pieces missing.

“Walk with me,” Sylvain says under his breath, dragging Felix away.

As quick as he had shown up, Felix has been whisked away without saying a proper goodbye to Hilda and Marianne. Sylvain tucks him under his arm, hiding him from view as much as possible. Although Felix struggles, he doesn’t manage to get out until the demon relents, having ducked into an alley behind a tavern. Under his armor, Sylvain tenses, checking over both shoulders repetitively, like he’s hiding from something Felix can’t see.

“You puh-prick!” Felix trips over his words, wrenching himself from the white-hot grasp, “Get away from me!”

“You’re welcome,” Sylvain deadpans, caging Felix in against the wall. Felix’s blood rushes in his ears, but it’s not like this situation is new to him.

“I’m welcome? What in Fódlan do I have to thank you for?” Felix spits, his sword suddenly drawn and held to Sylvain’s throat. He switches their positions, kicking Sylvain’s ankle to weaken his stance. It works, and Felix takes the window of time to press Sylvain against the tavern wall, who looks like he’s got a witty remark right up his sleeve.

“Put that away, and be quiet,” Sylvain shoves him off with ease and Felix swings, but it’s blocked as Sylvain’s arm sticks out, metal ricocheting off metal, “we’ve gotta get out of here.”

“Why? Are you going to kill me in my land?”

“Will you stop?” Sylvain hisses, “I won’t kill you, but the Imperial soldiers might.”

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not. I saved your life, Felix! You should be kinder to me.”

“Over my dead body.”

“Let’s go.”

 _Stop arguing. Stand against me. There’s not enough room. We don’t have time for this_. They’re all whispered under hushed breaths as the soldiers rush by them. Felix can’t tell who says what, back pressed against Sylvain’s chest in the narrowest of alleyways near the perimeter of the town.

“They're everywhere,” mutters Felix in disbelief. They must be a rogue band or underground. But how could so many soldiers still exist, and infiltrate? And why did Sylvain have to be right?

“We have to lure them out of town. Let them see you, but then hide again.”

“Why do you care? Why not let everyone die?”

“I have a debt to repay. And, it would lower my chances of getting closer to you.”

Felix makes a sour face. He shoves Sylvain’s breastplate once, then steps out into the walkway.

He’s always prided himself in the town, even as a child. Everybody has a home, and weary travelers stay at the inn for only a few gold. In the main streets, fragrant flowers grow in woven baskets hung from lampposts. It’s always clean, and there’s always an event, whether it be gambling at the local tavern or a celebration in the square. Fraldarius was lively in the past, and for that reason, Felix avoided it like the plague. As of late, the same liveliness has begun to make its return.

A broken cobblestone crunches under Felix’s boot, grinding against the cemented rock and attracting the attention of a suspicious-looking man clad in a deep gray robe. The man stills upon meeting Felix’s piercing eyes, like a rabbit when it hears the telltale sound of a bow’s string being drawn, pulled taut and ready for release.

Felix darts into another alley, Sylvain seeming to materialize beside him. His voice is quiet.

“You didn’t think something was wrong when you entered the town? The feeling was off?”

“The feeling?” Felix snaps, threatening to bite, “You’re the demon here: you tell me about bad feelings.”

“Alright, alright,” Sylvain directs Felix to the opposite exit of the alley, “it does come with the territory—“

“Listen,” Felix interrupts him mid-sentence, focusing his ear to the sound of men running, trying to keep their footsteps light as to not be heard. Luckily, Felix had stealth trained with Shamir enough to recognize the noise.

“We have to lead them to the back gate,” Felix closes his eyes, trying to picture Fraldarius from a birds’ eye perspective, and where they are in relation to the gate, “I have soldiers there. They’ll take them out for us, while we make our escape.”

“You mean we don’t get to fight?”

“It’s not a good image,” Felix explains, not that he has ever cared about his image, “if word gets out that the duke engages in trivial battles like this.”

Indeed, Ingrid often fights on the front lines, or so he’s heard. The difference is, Ingrid had trained for knighthood, and her people have always valued the Galateas for protecting them directly. For taking initiative, and being a humble family, as Ingrid once said in the midst of one of her lectures. She knows most of them by name. And makes regular visits to ensure they’re doing well. Felix would like to believe that Galatea being less populous than its surrounding territories helps, but he knows it’s all reputation, at this point.

Fraldarius’ people, on the other hand, have always expected Felix’s family to take care of what they deem important matters; regulating the goods that enter Fraldarius, diplomacy, political matters. Things that the ordinary citizen does not take part in. Felix has always been viewed as aristocracy, by virtue of being born into noble blood. His people expect him to be busy with paperwork and keeping up with his training should a terrible threat approach, not fighting a handful of rogue soldiers from a fallen empire on the outskirts of town.

“Ugh,” complains Sylvain, “I’ll take care of a few.”

There’s at least a dozen of them, Felix counts as he weaves in and out of the walkway and alleys, Clad in dark gray, almost black, clothing, carrying concealed daggers tucked into their boots. It’s a trick Felix knows like the back of his hand— he practically invented it, with how often he kept his own knives strapped against his leg during the war, or slept with one under his pillow. He called it a precaution, imperative if he wanted to live. He imagines taking a pillow to the soldiers’ faces, holding it there until they become limp in his arms. How easy that would be.

He’s pressed between a crate and a barrel when he throws Sylvain a sideways glance, and witnesses a harrowing display of his demonic power.

Sylvain’s fingers splay out atop the head of a soldier, his hand too big to be human, and his knuckles are white, trying to crush the soldier’s skull in the palm of his hand. Felix expects the head to explode in a projectile of blood and bone fragments and brains and eyeballs, but something far more gruesome takes place.

The man’s eyeballs erupt into flames, and his mouth gapes open like he’s gasping, mouthing blindly around words that do not come to fruition. He begins to shrink, and it appears that he ages rapidly, his skin drooping and trying to cling onto his bones, futile. Rivers of blood leak from his ears, disappearing into his collar, but the dark colour of his overcoat hides the stain. Sylvain delivers a final twist on the man’s head, breaking his neck with ease, and there’s a loud cracking noise when he does so.

What’s left of the man’s body bursts into a large fire that lasts but a few moments, and then all that’s left of him is a pile of ash. Felix chokes down a mouthful of bile.

“Pretty neat, right?” Sylvain spreads the ashes around with his foot, trying to make it look like he did not incinerate a man in the back streets of Fraldarius.

Why compliment Sylvain’s invaluable prowess when he could offhandedly insult it?

“It’s fine,” Felix casts a small wind spell to help clear the large ashes, “do it again, if needed.”

The back exit is in sight. Four Fraldarius men guard it; two on the inside, two on the outside. One catches Felix’s eye and straightens briskly as a cat would. Sylvain disappears. Just Felix’s luck.

Instructing his men and getting through the gate is easy enough, it’s ignoring his instincts to turn around and fight that proves most difficult. The battle would be simple, and in the end, Felix would emerge victoriously! Yet it’s unwise, has been since he took on his father’s title.

Sylvain appears once again, now that Felix has left the town, and as far away enough that his soldiers won’t question Sylvain for accompanying him. For a few minutes, they walk in silence, headed back to Felix’s estate, before Felix can no longer handle the overwhelming amount of questions he has.

“Gautier?” Is the only thing he can say, “You’re a Gautier?”

“Right,” Sylvain frowns, “It was going to be a game of mystery, or cat and mouse. I wasn’t expecting it to get cut short.”

“We’re too old for games,” Felix chides, “you have to expect your plans to get ruined”

“With the end of the war, I expected there would be more time for fun. But there’s still so much fighting to do, and more blood to spill.”

“They bring it upon themselves. They know the kingdom rules but they won’t admit it to themselves, blinded by their martyr.”

“Sounds like you have some real contempt for our fallen empress.”

“In another life, I would have joined her,” Felix confesses, “but in this life, I’m glad her head is missing.”

They trudge through mud and snow. Sylvain, for once it would seem, doesn’t have a retort.

“You changed the subject,” Felix says once they’re far enough away from the town, “Gautier? Are you going to explain that to me?”

“Yeah,” the corner of Sylvain’s mouth twitches into a frown, and he cards a hand through his hair, “it’s kind of a long story.”

“You know I do not have obligations today.”

“Well,” Sylvain rubs the back of his neck, “it’s not pleasant.”

“Get on with it.”

Sylvain’s childhood memories are fragmented, frosted over by the cold, endless winters of Gautier. Unable to match a name to a face, he remembers his mother’s warm hands on his cheeks, thumb brushing under his eye, and catching on his bottom lashes. He remembers the dimples when she smiled, how it never reached her eyes, and was gone too soon. The scent of linen and pine and brick when she leaned in, blocking his view of her face to kiss his forehead and cradle him against her shoulder.

“The margrave should not have taken another lover,” Sylvain says cryptically, willing Felix to understand the implications of his words.

The lance was too heavy for his childlike hands, leaving splinters in the top layers of his skin that he’d later try to pull out with his teeth, hoping that they wouldn’t get stuck in his tongue. He threw the lance, only expecting it to fly a few yards. Instead, a surge of hot air surrounded him, and suddenly air refused to enter his lungs. Orange clouded his peripheral, and he hadn’t realized he was falling until his palms hit ice-cold snow. The lance was nowhere to be found until Miklan came back with one broken half of it.

Felix begins to fit the pieces together, holding his tongue. He treks a few paces ahead of Sylvain, to open the gate to his estate.

“Actually, that reminds me of something,” Sylvain says, holding the gate open for Felix, “I had a dream once, and let me tell you, it was incredible. You were there, too.”

“How long ago was this dream?” Felix questions, ever the skeptic. Sylvain seems to have a knack for changing the conversation topic to fit his desires.

“Years. Now, let me continue. It was you, and I, and many others at a school in a monastery. And our professor— get this— she was hosting the Goddess Sothis in her, like a vessel!”

Felix is glad he chose to walk ahead of Sylvain, unsure if he could have hidden his mortified expression.

“Do you believe in the Goddess, Felix? Do you think something like that could happen?”

The way he says it… he must know! About Byleth, about the academy, about the false pretenses under which Byleth was hired. She’s nestled in the safe palms of Castle Blaiddyd, and could certainly hold her own against a skirt-chasing demon, but Felix still feels the instinctual need to protect her. She died for her students, after all.

“I suppose anything is possible,” Felix says while pushing the double doors open, “but I’m no devout believer; you should know that. Tell me more about your dream.”

Felix waits inside, half expecting Sylvain to follow him in. Would he be opposed to it? He’s not sure if he means himself, or Sylvain. But the demon waits upon the top step, a mysterious glimmer hiding somewhere in the depths of the black holes of his eyes.

"You were so precious to me. We promised to die together— romantic, don't you think?" Sylvain smells of rot, looming closer and letting his voice drop to a low timbre. His face begins to melt like a candle, lit from within, and Felix can only think of one word to describe the scene: petrifying.

"Demons do not dream," Felix says simply, feeling faint. He shuts the door in Sylvain's face, "Goodbye, Sylvain."

Felix waits, still as a statue, for what feels like hours. Finally, he cracks the door open, just enough to peer outside. Sylvain is gone.

A few days pass, but Felix isn’t sure how many. They blur together in different shades of orange sunrises and navy blue sunsets, and he passes the time by writing in his bed or sleeping the daylight away. On what he thinks is the fourth or fifth day, he finally bathes.

Linen towel wrapped around his torso, Felix pushes the balcony door open, and steps outside. Today he drinks white tea, not for its vile taste but it’s the only thing that allowed him to get out of bed. The air is crisp, and he feels a cold streak run down his shoulder from where his hair holds onto his bathwater.

He looks out across Fraldarius and sees a figure that he thinks must be Sylvain, meandering around the estate’s grounds. Sylvain kneels by a patch of flowers, Felix imagines them withering away due to his presence. Do demons like flowers? Felix wonders to himself.

After Felix’s mother passed, Rodrigue decreased the size of the gardens around the estate. Felix doesn’t remember it much, having been merely a child when she died. If Sylvain likes them, Felix might get use out of the greenhouse again. For now, it stands abandoned and covered in thin, brown vines as the land takes it back.

By the time Felix is dressed and left his room, Sylvain is in the outdoor training grounds, slowly going through the fluid motions of wielding a sword. By the way, he holds the weapon, Felix knows that Sylvain’s not an amateur, but he’s not at Felix’s level.

“Are you going to haunt me for the rest of my life?” Felix says in lieu of a greeting.

Sylvain’s arm suspends in midair, and he cranes his neck back to face Felix. The angle should be extremely uncomfortable, near impossible. Felix’s hypothesis is proven correct by a wet sound when Sylvain twists his body to align with his head.

“Perhaps. Is it so bad that I would like a friend after all this time?”

“No. But it doesn’t have to be me.”

“On the contrary. I think you are the perfect candidate to be my friend.”

“Fine,” Felix relents, not caring to hear Sylvain’s explanation, and picks up a silver sword, “let’s spar, then.”

“How exciting,” Sylvain puts the sword back where he found it, “Mind if I use a lance?”

“Aren’t you out of practise?”

“A little,” Sylvain admits, picking up a lance that's worse quality than the sword, “but I suppose that makes it more fun.”

Felix doesn’t understand.

“All right,” he says, rationalizing that an argument would be pointless. He warms up, stretching his limbs and hanging up his long coat. Sylvain adjusts his grip on the lance. Then readjusts. The lance is not made for a demon, but a man. It should give Felix an advantage, not that he needs it.

“I’m ready.”

“Let’s begin!”

Sylvain fights dirty, devoid of technique and form. He fights like he’s on the battlefield, poised to kill, and he’s almost as fast as Felix, who darts away from Sylvain’s messy jabs with ease. Yet Sylvain, lacking either the knowledge or the grace to spar with proper form, uses his feet to kick blindly at Felix’s ankles, aims his lance at Felix’s knees to try to take them out, narrowly missing at every chance he gets. It gets on Felix’s nerves, though deep down he knows he can’t fault Sylvain for not knowing proper form. In a twisted way, it inspires Felix to perform better, both to show off his expertise, and to win. Sylvain doesn’t allow him to turn away, or give him time to cast any spells. It’s Felix and his sword and his Officer’s Academy knowledge against Sylvain and his lance and the dirt in his teeth.

“This is fun,” Sylvain compliments, using his brutish, demonic strength to shove Felix backward as Felix attempts to parry his blow. Felix uses the momentum of Sylvain’s push to jump even further away, and the distance gives him just enough time to cast what would be a fatal spell in battle. Momentarily blinded by its blue light, the spell hits Sylvain despite his attempt to dodge. The breadth of the spell is too wide to avoid, and Sylvain hisses, shaking out his arm like he strained a muscle.

“You have shit form,” Felix points out, opting to take the distraction as an opening to cast another, different spell.

“It’s probably,” Sylvain holds his lance in one hand, positioned to throw it like a javelin, “what got me killed!”

And then, in an oppressive flash of orange and red light, the lance goes flying, almost hitting Felix, who dives out of the way and casts another, powerful spell in Sylvain’s direction.

The Crest of Gautier, unmistakable when it flashed, caused the hair on the back of Felix’s neck to rise and the wind to rush out from his lungs. Having no time to gauge Sylvain’s reaction to his Crest activating, the spell knocks Sylvain off his feet, but he falls forward, landing on his knees, head hung against his chest. Felix entertains the thought of using the tip of his blade to tilt Sylvain’s chin up to look at him for a moment, but Sylvain does it himself.

“Do you yield?” Felix asks, spellcast already open if Sylvain refuses.

“Sure,” Sylvain chokes out a laugh.

“Say it, then.”

“I yield,” Sylvain holds both hands up, mock-surrender, “May I get up, now?”

In one fluid motion, Felix’s sword is back in its sheath. He does not offer to help Sylvain up, but he also does not say anything to keep him on the ground. Sylvain pushes himself to his feet.

“Best two out of three?”

“No.”

“Come on, let me beat you!”

“I said no. Do you eat?” Felix changes the subject, pulling his coat from the hook and putting it back on.

“Rarely. Food often turns to coal in my mouth.”

“I imagine that makes for a good meal.”

“You’d be surprised.”

“Wait in the sitting room,” Felix instructs, “I will make something.”

“Is that an invitation inside your home?”

“It is. Are you not only a demon, but a moron?”

“I need an invitation to enter,” Sylvain explains, “a rule about being a demon, I guess.”

“That rule is for vampires,” Felix knows this because of the few fiction novels he devoured in his younger years, read in between shadows of a flickering candle’s flame. Sylvain must think him to be stupid.

He points to the sitting room as if to silently tell Sylvain where to wait. It’s a simple room; a large bay window covered with a thick, navy curtain embroidered with the Crest of Fraldarius. A fireplace, unused since Felix had taken over as the head of the house, waits patiently to be lit. There’s a long, mahogany table surrounded by gaudy chairs that Felix hates but can’t bring himself to get rid of or replace.

Above the fireplace hangs a portrait Rodrigue had commissioned weeks before Glenn’s passing. The details on Felix’s and Rodrigue’s faces are comparable to the real thing, but Glenn’s lacks the same structure, the elements that made him Glenn missing. Felix recalls Glenn’s features as sharp, but his nose like a button, and his eyes a bit wider than Felix’s, less intense and more handsome. The figure in the portrait looks like a simple, replaceable, boy.

Sylvain takes a seat on the end of the chaise lounge, and gives Felix an incredulous look, one eyebrow arched high above the other. It draws Felix from his lamenting, back to reality.

“Vampires don’t exist,” he says like he’s telling Felix the sky is blue, or the grass is green, “now who’s the moron?”

Felix’s weighty heart thuds when he closes the door to the dining room, like a rabbit beating its leg against his ribs. Did he honestly put himself in the position of cooking for a demon? And said demon is waiting in his sitting room, doing Goddess-knows-what, could very easily kill Felix and feast from the hot, thin flesh of his neck… but Sylvain doesn’t want that, he’s said so himself. Felix shouldn’t believe him, it’s common knowledge that demons are notorious liars. Yet when Felix emerges from the kitchen, steaming meat skewers laid out on a platter with a few side dishes, the demon is still waiting in the sitting room.

Sylvain looks like an oil painting of the Devil without his wings, temptation personified.

He’s wearing the uniform of a dark knight, but without the layers of armor. Strangely, his ensemble is from hundreds of years ago, not the one Felix has become used to seeing. He finds it perplexing, in all honesty, but the top stretches tight amongst Sylvain’s broad chest, straining around the meat of his upper arms.

Sylvain’s hair is a glowing, copper red, and his limbs extend too far, somewhat uncanny. When he sits on the chaise, his knees almost reach his chest. Felix cannot look for long without feeling discomfort. Sylvain’s jaw is incredibly sharp and his teeth all form into points when he grins at the loose papers he’s holding, vampiric, in a twisted way. His eyes, as Felix had known, are pitch black: where there is supposed to be white, there’s nothing at all. Felix isn’t quite sure where to look if he would want to make eye contact, but he dislikes making eye contact so he supposes he doesn’t mind. Though Felix is loathe to admit it, Sylvain is, in some sense of the word, handsome.

There’s an itch creeping under Felix’s collar.

Felix makes sure to be as noisy as possible when he brings the food to the sitting room, slamming the tray down on the table for good measure. Sylvain looks up from what he is reading what Felix thinks are his letters, but it takes effort to tear his attention from the text.

“Are my letters entertaining enough for you?” Felix asks, tearing into a skewer.

“Letters?” Sylvain echoes, then shakes his head, “I’m reading your fables.”

Felix’s writings are not fables, really, but he doesn’t correct Sylvain as to not bring up his academy days. Upon finding that solitude leaves one with an unbearable amount of free time, Felix had begun to write not only letters but the beginnings of testimony, an autobiography of sorts, detailing the year before the war began. Most of it was mundane recollections of Byleth’s lectures, lunch conversations with Ingrid and Dimitri, and their house’s absurd monthly missions.

“Writing seems to come naturally to you,” Sylvain tucks one page behind another, demeanor switching from playful to earnest, and it gives Felix the sensation of whiplash, “You're an honest author.”

“That’s enough of that,” Felix snatches the papers away from him, folding them under his arm, “I didn’t make all of this food for myself.”

Their hands brush with Felix snatches it away from him, Sylvain not wearing his wrist armor for the first time since their meeting. Sylvain reaches for the tray, and in the process, his arm curls around Felix’s middle. Then it’s gone, and he’s lounging back, lazily tearing into the meat as if he’s without a care in the world.

“Happy?” Sylvain asks, tongue covered in black, tasteless coal. Felix makes a disgruntled sound and sits on the other side of the table. He wouldn’t say it aloud, but he’s grown to somewhat enjoy cooking, even more so when he has company to finish it off. 

Despite the food not having any effect on Sylvain, he eats his share and catches Felix staring at him once. Or twice. Felix’s gaze quickly darts to the fireplace, cold, whistling. Its bricks are a grayish colour, crumbling. Sylvain’s fingers curl into a fist, then extend outwards as if he is throwing something, and the fireplace erupts into flames. Eyes widening in shock, Felix takes control of his expression and fixes a glare on the demon. His eyes, a brilliant shade of deep amber, reflect the firelight. Light seems to disappear when it touches Sylvain’s hollow eyes. He quirks a smile at Felix.

Perhaps a demon— a friend— in Felix’s home, would not be so unwelcome after all.

  
  
**ii. the demon**

Sylvain, unexpectedly, becomes somewhat of a constant in Felix’s life. 

He comes and goes as he pleases, and Felix allows him in the estate with only the ghost of a scowl on his lips. Inevitably, Felix will bring out drinks for the two of them to share, only putting them away when they’ve either emptied, or Felix is sufficiently drunk. Sylvain will insist on carrying Felix to bed, who brushes him off and clings to the railing as he calculates each step, each stair, up to his room. He may think himself foolish for allowing himself to reach such a point of inebriation around a creature like Sylvain, but Sylvain has not yet hurt him or bled him dry. Yet. 

Needless to say, Felix learns to anticipate Sylvain’s arrival. 

Midway through the second moon of Sylvain’s spontaneous visits, Felix meets him in front of his estate, at the grand set of stairs that lead up to the entrance. He watches Sylvain’s appearance from the pavilion at the bottom of the stairs, perched on the fountain where algae grows amok. It has begun to crawl over the sides. How unsightly it is, and Felix should learn how to clean it up. Sylvain, shocked to see him out of the estate’s walls, bows at Felix. 

“Good morning, Duke Fraldarius,” Sylvain says in the tone he uses to tease, sweet honeysuckle colouring his words.

“Sylvain,” Felix acknowledges, then crosses his arms in an attempt to appear powerful, “Rules must be established if your visits persist.” 

“What sorts of rules?” 

Felix’s proposed list is not entirely out of character or unusual for him; as he gets older, he’s begun to prefer a safety net in the event that things are cast out of his favour. 

Felix’s proposed list of rules are as follows;

  1. If Sylvain is to visit infrequently, he must first inform Felix of the approximate day of arrival.
  2. Sylvain is not to disclose any information about the time the two of them spent together.
  3. If Felix provides Sylvain with something of his desire, Sylvain must reciprocate. 



“You find these terms agreeable?” 

Sylvain does not answer right away, taking in the Duke’s appearance which he only notices then. Felix had not worn his shoes or his breeches or anything Sylvain had otherwise seen him wearing before. Instead, Felix wears a loose-fitting turtleneck and linen trousers and nothing else. His hair, blue-black and tied at the nape of his neck, gleams in the sunlight while morning dew soaks his feet. 

“It’s fine,” Sylvain says, “I quite like the part about reciprocation.” 

“You would. Clean the fountain, and I’ll have something for you in return.”

“Huh?” 

Felix’s lips curve into a fleeting smug grin, and he pivots quickly, then scampers back up the steps much like a kitten set loose from its cage. His clothes billow in the air, causing Sylvain to imagine what his hair would look like, caught in a midsummer’s breeze. Would it be as lovely as he envisioned? 

“You think that’s funny?” Sylvain calls towards the top of the steps, where Felix peers down at him, humour painting his expression. 

“I do, in fact,” Felix retorts, “See you in the evening, Sylvain.”

Sylvain tends to the horses while Felix watches from his bedroom window, ultimately deciding to finish weeding what Sylvain had started.

Another moon passes. And then another. Sylvain, over the weeks, begins to look more and more like a man until the only remaining demonic features are his black hollowed eyes. 

Little by little, Felix’s estate cleans itself up, most of the time by Sylvain’s hand, but Felix had requested books, botanic and encyclopedic to inform his planting decisions. They had come from Count Varley, to whom Felix wrote a letter in return, thankful she had somehow been spared in those harrowing years. In return for his labour, Felix provides Sylvain with gold, but most often, company, drinks, dusty board games and unfinished chapters for him to devour. 

From his balcony, Felix watches as Sylvain tends to the estate’s horses; there are only half a dozen or so, and Felix did not dismiss all the external staff, so it’s not necessary for Sylvain to take care of them. But there’s something so natural about the way he leads them to the stable, how he expertly loops the reins up to the hooks, and knows how to soothe the creatures when they show discomfort. By his actions alone, Felix deduces that Sylvain has worked with horses before, maybe as a child, maybe as a demon. He’s not figured that part out yet. 

He descends the staircase, dons a pair of leather gloves, and meets Sylvain halfway across the expanse of land. 

“Good morning, sleeping beauty,” Sylvain jokes, referencing the fact that Felix fell asleep early the night prior, and had slept in during the morning, “What’s got you out of bed so soon?” 

“I’m going to help you,” Felix says, to which Sylvain raises one eyebrow, “I’ll finish the weeding for you. There’s a reason Count Varley sent me copies of her books.”

“Oh,” Sylvain says quietly, “Do they value those encyclopedias?” 

“More than she values Ferdinand, likely,” Felix thinks back to when Ferdinand had his lance pressed against Felix’s throat, trapped between his cavalier thighs and the cobblestone-lined ground, the terrifying and humanizing look in Ferdinand’s eyes that pleaded against killing his own former classmates-- Felix’s fist clenches as he holds back a shiver. 

“You forget I don’t know these people.” 

“Right,” Felix says awkwardly, “Bernadetta von Varley acquired the Count title after the death of her tyrant father, then married the Adrestian Prime Minister’s son, Ferdinand. She’s quite the botanist.” 

“Imperials?” Sylvain walks with Felix over to the gardens, “They were spared?” 

Ashe struck Ferdinand in his shoulder from behind, a spray of black and red blood smearing on Felix’s face. He had only a moment’s window of time to escape before Ferdinand reacted to the arrow caught in his flesh, but by that point someone had the blade of their sword kissing Ferdinand’s neck. He begged to be spared, and it was Byleth who allowed it, having Felix and Dedue carry him off, bound at his wrists and feet until they reached Garreg Mach. There, he was thrown into solitary confinement until they figured out what to do with him. 

“It wasn’t easy,” Felix doesn’t answer the question directly, feeling his ache flare up. It’s never been a physical ache, “but yes. Imperials.”

They weed in silence after that, Felix’s mind cataloging all of the foliage Sylvain had planted, and the patterns he had planted them in, so it will be easier to navigate the next time they find themselves in this same position. It was a boring life they had all wished upon each other, and now Felix’s head is full of cross-breeding flowers and how much water they’ll need. But... 

Felix can’t stop thinking of Ferdinand; his copper hair soaked in his own blood, the way his wounds had become infected, bubbling with blood and pus before they healed. How his voice sounded small and terrified when he asked Felix to, when Felix had come down to his confinement deliver dinner, spare Hubert. He still thinks it strange that he had not said anything about Edelgard; perhaps he knew her execution, as Dimitri had put it, was inevitable, and simply wished not to speak of it, for begging for her retribution was futile and unquestionably stupid. He remembers the dull colour of Ferdinand’s eyes in the cell, the fading gold of his hair. 

While Dimitri was suffering, Felix, Dedue, and Byleth assumed themselves the leaders of the house and war council. Part of Felix regrets it; he’s always been more of an individualist. But they won, with four imperials saved, so it must count for something. 

“And you’re on decent terms with them?”

“Bernadetta and I were… friends. I think we are, again.”

“She must be special,” Sylvain says absentmindedly, “for you to have let her in.”

 _Once you get through the shell_ , Bernadetta’s voice rings in Felix’s head, _there's all sorts of good stuff inside_. Sylvain gives him a look, like he is surprised at the fact that Felix has friends. _You’re just like a nut_. 

Felix agrees, then sits on his heels, “I know what you’re thinking. It doesn’t make sense. We used to be enemies. We sacrificed our childhoods to try to kill each other. And this is the result?”

“I didn’t say that,” Sylvain chastises teasingly, even though it’s in line with what he was thinking. He expects Felix to become irritated, say something snarky in return. Except Felix’s shoulder meets Sylvain’s and there’s a pressure— Felix is leaning on him. 

“You didn’t have to. I know these things. I’m my father’s son.”

“Or a prophet,” Sylvain says, taking a break from uprooting weeds and placing his hands in his lap. 

“No,” Felix’s voice sounds drowsy, like being outside has tired him out, “between the two of us, you’re the freak.”

The sickness comes suddenly, and Felix does not leave his bed for a number of days. Felix’s sickness is not physical, he does not cough nor sneeze nor perspire. It comes in the form of a cyclical emptiness and sleepless nights and the inability to stay awake for more than a few hours at a time. Sylvain had come by not long ago, and currently has his palms pressed to the basin in which Felix bathes, heating up the water until it’s hot enough to turn Felix’s skin an angry pink colour, tender.

“We’re more alike than you think,” Sylvain takes it upon himself to collect Felix in his arms, who stiffens at the gesture and feels entirely too awkward for such an intimate position. His hair is oily from not washing it and hangs limply around his face, and his skin is a ghostly pale shade. He undresses with Sylvain’s help, and settles into the water. 

“Why do you say that?” Felix asks, looking at the demon through his eyelashes. 

“You and I both have duties to fulfill.” 

“I don’t believe,” Felix feels Sylvain’s hands at the nape of his neck starting to lather his hair. He hopes the heat of the water disguises his embarrassment, “the extents are equivalent. What obligations could you have?”

“My strength,” Sylvain answers, “I’m a weapon. More than that, it is… moral. If there is a problem in Gautier, I take care of it.” 

“Sounds like a mercenary’s work, just without the pay.” 

There’s a ghost of a smile in Sylvain’s voice when he agrees, “You’re right. I don’t know why I care enough to go, and put my life at risk. My family thinks I’m dead. They never treated me well.”

“I don’t understand either,” Felix catches a bubble on the tip of his finger, watching the colours swirl within until it pops, “but I, too, must do things I don’t understand.”

“What’s that?”

“I have a confession. If you laugh, I will kill you.”

“I will not laugh,” Sylvain promises.

“I have had few relationships, and my marriage will be one of convenience.”

“Faerghus noblemen,” Sylvain says lightly, “If you don’t desire marriage…” 

“That sentiment is much easier said than done, you intolerable beast,” Felix shoves at Sylvain’s shoulder in what Sylvain thinks is an uncharacteristically gentle playfulness, but there’s a hint of sadness in his eyes, “I don’t have a choice in the matter.”

“You always have a choice, Felix.” 

Felix huffs, fleetingly agitated, “It’s a complicated system. I do not expect a demon to understand the intricacies of noble marriage obligations.” 

“I understand more than you give me credit for. You think you’re running out of time,” Sylvain sounds hurt, “I simply do not care for politics or land or peace agreements.”

“That’s not it,” Felix insists, bringing his knees to his chest, “I am meant to continue my bloodline, but I am certain it will end with me.” 

Sylvain takes a moment to consider the statement, Felix’s words a roundabout confession of sorts. He grins wolfishly, “Oh. In that case, perhaps you should discuss your marriage with King Dimitri at the reunion.”

“Perhaps you should drop it, and finish washing my hair.” 

Sylvain exhales a laugh, “I’ll get right on that.”   
  
Felix recovers— never in full— enough to return to the outdoors, tired of the same four walls, tired of being trapped within them. 

“I like it when you are here,” Felix asserts during the cusp of spring and summer, bathing his bare feet in the fountain, “It’s less lonely.”

Felix knows it's his own fault for ridding the estate of its staff. He’s the cause of his own loneliness, and it was mere luck that Sylvain showed up to fill that void. 

Sylvain rests on the ground, bathing in the midday sun. He cracks one eye open, “Really?”

“Don’t make me say it again…” 

He caresses Felix’s calf with the back of his fingers, toys with the hem of his linen trousers, “I like being here too.”

A warm breeze drifts by, the way warm breezes tend to do when Sylvain arrives. Felix interlocks his fourth finger with Sylvain’s, “Then stay.”

“You’re reading,” Sylvain observes a fortnight later, having left and returned to the estate while Felix was still sleeping. He left gifts of smoked pheasant and Galatea produce in the foyer, ready to prepare it for Felix in return for a nice conversation and comfortable place to stay. While resting in the sitting room, he heard Felix moving about upstairs, and watched him enter Rodrigue’s room, blanket draped over his shoulders. Felix hadn’t noticed him. 

Naturally, Sylvain followed. 

“Good observation,” Felix deadpans, eyes flickering up from the book as if to say hello, “ever the insightful one.”

“Forgot you could do that,” Sylvain sets a small cloth bag on the desk, and peers over Felix’s shoulder at the pages, “Is it anything interesting?”

“My father’s writings. I’m trying to learn more about you, but there’s not much to go on,” Felix glances at the bag, “What’s this?” 

“A gift. Dry-cured pork. I’m certain you’ll like it,” Sylvain watches Felix wordlessly taste it, not missing how his expression brightens. 

“It’s not bad,” Felix says, and Sylvain considers that a success. 

“Have you learned something worthwhile yet?”

“Not at all,” Felix’s lips turn down, “I can’t figure any of this out. And you refuse every time I even try to ask.”

Sylvain stills. Are demons allowed to feel shame? Felix is not just another curious mind that Sylvain can brush off. He’s important. Felix slams the book shut after a moment of Sylvain’s silence. Unceremoniously, he throws it into a drawer in the desk, then stands up. 

“Forget it,” Felix huffs. So the meat was not enough to distract him, “I won’t fight. It’s fine if you don’t answer.”

Sylvain remembers it like it happened yesterday, rather than a decade ago. The Crest Stone in Miklan’s hand, the way he toyed with it like he couldn’t decide whether to put it in the lance, or in Sylvain’s body directly. 

“No, I’ll…” Sylvain feels the intensely human urge to wring his wrists and worry his lip, “I’ll satiate your curiosity. Imagine you are the Crest-less older brother of a bastard child.” 

Sylvain discards his usual armor and , revealing a hole-- no other way to put it-- where his lungs should be. Felix blushes at the sight. The embarrassment gets worse when he realizes he’s staring. 

“How upset would you be?” asks Sylvain. 

Felix doesn’t know. He has a crest and Glenn had one too. Though he imagines it would feel similar to his own second-best status. Just how amplified would it have been? 

“We were defending ourselves from Sreng threats... Miklan said he would make a deal with the Sreng people. He’d kill me himself, and they’d leave us alone. They didn’t care— that’s not what they wanted.”

_The walk to the Sreng border is awful. It’s springtime, but the snow has barely started to melt, and Sylvain’s boots are caked with dirt. Sylvain’s thankful they made it in one piece, now standing behind his older brother in a wooden structure. Miklan and then Sreng people are arguing, that much is clear. But Sylvain’s knowledge of political jargon is lacking, despite how hard he had tried to eavesdrop and read difficult texts growing up. It’s incomparable to a true noble’s diction._

“But he had this lance, with a stone embedded in it, and it was supposed to be mine. Because I have the crest.” 

_Miklan’s lance gives Sylvain a terrible feeling. It glows and stares at him and moves on its own like there’s life within it. When Miklan wields it, Sylvain can tell it hurts him, not by the grimace on his face but by the stains it leaves on his skin, and how he becomes much crueler to him after a battle._

_It happens quickly, the voices escalating and holding their fists up as if to strike him. Miklan remains unshaken, and his fingers twitch around the lance. A man approaches Miklan just out of his peripheral, fist raised, but there’s a glint of metal and—_

_Sylvain jumps in front of him before he can speak, a twisted act of loyalty for a brother that would like nothing more than to see his grave. Chaos erupts. Miklan throws a punch towards the leader, whom he had been speaking with, shouts a command to their battalion, and throws Sylvain over his shoulder. He makes a quick escape from the building and runs deep into the thicket._

_Miklan throws Sylvain into the snowbank and screams into his palms._

_“Why did you do that?!” Miklan demands, ripping the shoulder from Sylvain’s clothing. In the skirmish, Sylvain received a deep cut, from which blood flows freely and drips upon the snow. Sylvain doesn’t want to cry, but his eyes burn._

_“I was protecting you,” Sylvain tries explaining, face contorting in pain._

_Without warning, Miklan jabs a finger in Sylvain’s wound, twisting it this way and that until Sylvain can no longer take the pain and makes the feeble attempt to shove him off._

_“Protecting me?” Miklan shakes the blood off his finger, sneering at Sylvain, “you made me look weak.”_

_And so Miklan sets a garnet stone into the hole in the lance, and points it towards Sylvain._

“He killed me over, and over. With the lance that was meant to be mine. But something was wrong— I didn’t stay dead. I just lied there, bleeding. I eventually passed out.”

Felix tries to envision it: a young Sylvain with the life drained from his eyes (what colour would they be? An ocean blue, or a gray the colour of storm clouds?), with the lance’s bone fragments lodged in his chest, an open wound that will never fully close. 

“And when I woke up, it was all over, and I... I’m this.”

“That’s…” Felix narrows his eyes, “That’s inconceivable.” 

Sylvain laughs, “You don’t have to believe me.”

“It’s not that,” Felix says. While it is difficult to believe, he doesn’t know Sylvain to be a liar. There’s nothing he would gain aside from a little sympathy. But if sympathy is what Sylvain wanted, he came to the wrong person, as Felix is certain he knows. Still, the story has him caught in a spell of discomfort, whether or not it’s a lie. 

“Why did you protect him?” Felix asks insensitively. It’s a question that Sylvain has pondered countless times himself. 

“Myself?” Sylvain interjects Felix’s internal monologue, “I believe I’m a failed demonic beast.”

“...Failed?” Felix looks Sylvain up and down, “That might not be so bad of a theory.”

Sylvain beams, “I’m glad you agree. I’m hoping to prove it, someday.”

“Perhaps I’ll put you in contact with an old acquaintance of mine. He was always so obsessed with crests and their effects on the physical body,” Felix rambles, shaken by Sylvain’s story. If it really is true, Felix cannot fathom how much pain Sylvain endured. 

“How thoughtful of you,” Sylvain’s teases, “thank you.”

“Right,” Felix answers, awkwardly looking away. Sylvain’s hand encloses over his own. 

Felix is then struck by how he wishes to have known Sylvain in the past. Could he have saved him? Would they have been friends? And what if Sylvain’s circumstances were different— if he were of pure noble blood? What if Sylvain’s dream was the reality that was meant to be? How awful the hand of cards they have been dealt. 

“Honestly,” Sylvain’s voice is quiet, gentler, “I appreciate it.”

Sylvain stays much longer this time. 

“Nothing for me, today?” Sylvain searches the top of Felix’s desk but does not find a single piece of new writing. He fiddles with one of Felix’s unopened letters, loopy handwriting and wax-sealed with the Crest of Dominic. Felix bats his hands away, positive Sylvain will mess up his disorganized organization, and sits down in the ornate chair. 

“No. I thought we could do something different.”

“Oh, some experimenting? I’m interested.” 

“I would like to paint your portrait. If that’s permissible,” the words sound lodged in Felix’s throat, and he takes great interest in the rug that covers the floor. His father had purchased it after one of Glenn’s fits-- he had stabbed his sword into the sword and dug up a sizable piece of wood. 

Sylvain recalls the portrait of the Fraldarius family that hangs in the day room. How, when Felix observes it, his lips curl like he’s received a paper cut that refuses to stop bleeding. A mild inconvenience, but the sting persists for far too long. 

“Will I feel like this forever?” Felix asked aloud a few weeks ago, unaware that Sylvain was watching the breakdown from the second floor, “Will I think of you all, every day, until I die? I cannot stand the thought.”

In the present, Sylvain says, uncharacteristically gentle, “Yes. You have my permission. Shall I pour us wine?”

Felix is not practiced with oil paints, frustrated noises coming from his lips when he decides a feature is wrong, or a colour is off, or the lighting is muddled. He builds the layers with care, more difficult than he expected. 

“Can you speak while you paint?”

“Somewhat,” says Felix, “I haven’t much practice.”

“All right. Tell me a story. I’m bored.”

Sylvain could watch Felix for hours, watch the late afternoon sun illuminate his face. But it’s nice to hear his voice. He has such a sweet voice; medium in pitch with the slightest rasp, like a well-loved instrument tuned to perfection. Are there strings inside Felix that Sylvain can pluck, a maestro?

“Insatiable,” mutters Felix around a smile he’s trying to hide, causing Sylvain to grin slightly, “what do you want to hear?”

“A happy memory.”

“From me? You must be joking,” Felix scoffs. His happy memories are few and far between, laced with the royal blue of a youthful Dimitri, and Ingrid’s steadfastness. 

“It should be easy to pick the best one, then.” 

Felix glances up at Sylvain, at the permanent smirk on his lips, so plump and glistening and pink. He looks back down at the portrait. How could he ever think to capture the deity that is Sylvain Gautier?

“When I was a child,” Felix says uneasily, “Dimitri, Ingrid, and I would play for hours. Rodrigue— my father— was so upset, but he never let it show. When we were thirteen, or so, we were at dinner. Dimitri was uncomfortable, so I...”

Felix hesitates, Sylvain unable to discern if he’s having trouble with the painting or the memory is triggering an unpleasant coil in his stomach. He grimaces like he bit into a rotten apple, and shakes his head slightly. Dipping the brush back into the paint, he begins to colour the shadows that appear on Sylvain’s cheeks, the contour of his jawline, and the curve of his bottom lip. 

“I told a lie that I was feeling unwell. Dimitri took me to his quarters and we played with cards until my father came to collect me. But I wanted to stay with the prince, so I pretended to feel worse.”

Sylvain’s smile is sad. It doesn’t reach his eyes. 

“I stayed at the castle for two days pretending to be feverish. Dimitri didn’t say a word.”

“Perhaps he believed you,” Sylvain murmurs. 

“He would,” Felix bottles up the reflex to laugh to himself. How gullible Dimitri was in his youth…

“And now?” Sylvain asks, “Would he believe you?”

“He doesn’t think of me. Dimitri thinks only of himself; he believes he is a wound personified,” Felix’s features darken like he’s upset with the war’s outcome, or the resulting scars left upon Faerghus’ king, “as if his own bloodletting will result in institutional reform.” 

“What a strange way to put it,” Sylvain muses, then drinks from the cup which Felix handed to him hours ago, filled and refilled twice again, “You almost sound like you would have preferred to take Edelgard’s side.”

Felix stills. He does not answer. Thankfully, Sylvain asks a new question. 

“Does he shirk his duties?”

Felix recalls the first few weeks following the kingdom’s victory. How everybody acted incredibly off: Ashe began to wail into the darkest hours of the night, Mercedes’ temper so easily lost even with her closest friends, the way Annette seemed to be possessed when she pulled on Felix’s sleeve and begged him to please talk to her. Did Dimitri shirk his duties then?

“It’s not my concern,” Felix busies himself by finishing off what’s left in his glass and pouring some more. It’s a good thing Dimitri has Byleth to find salvation in, Felix thinks. 

“You know, being undead has its advantages,” Sylvain says coyly, half referencing how the alcohol has little effect on him, and half referencing the knowledge he’s come across over the years, “I know all about the Fraldarius and Blaiddyd lines.”

“I trust you are aware of my father’s willingness to die for them, then,” Felix says evenly, a layer of hurt beneath his words. 

“Of course. What a noble way to go, hm?” 

Felix is quiet then. Normal people would have quickly apologized, but Sylvain leans forth and burns a fire into Felix’s skull with his gaze. He’s not normal. 

Felix believed Rodrigue’s death, bloody and unnecessary, severed the already broken bond between himself and the king. What was left between them became, in many ways, irreparable. Yes, Felix can meet Dimitri’s eye, and yes, he can hold a civil conversation. But every time Dimitri tried to lure him into a corner or looked at him with that helpless, crestfallen expression, Felix chose to look at the ground and count the minutes until Dimitri left him alone in Castle Blaiddyd. He looked like a child whose toes had just been stepped on, and Felix had felt his blood boil. Quickly, it simmered, and Felix returned to his estate. 

Now he thinks Rodrigue’s death was a waste. But he’s not sure what to make of his relationship with Dimitri. 

“I mentioned many moons ago that in another life I would have followed Edelgard. But if I am honest, in this life, I thought about it greatly,” Felix’s voice is hardly above a whisper, “joining the strike force.”

“But you didn’t,” Sylvain finishes for him. 

“No. I didn’t.” 

Sylvain does not push the topic. He was not there, it’s ancient history by now. Perhaps if he were part of their class, he would have considered following Edelgard to her end. He recalls their chat from the last moon, how Felix appeared nymphlike and naked in his basin. 

“Tell me, Felix, what do you intend to do about the inevitable relationship between you and the king?”

Right. The controversial Blaiddyd and Fraldarius destiny. Felix has heard of it time and time again, that his and Dimitri’s bloodlines are fated together, to be intertwined until death. Dimitri used to recount the lore like it was a fairytale, lulling Felix to sleep during restless childhood nights. How often were their ancestors romantically involved? 

“I don’t allow myself to give it thought,” Felix’s eyes fix on the hearth, crackling and orange, “Reincarnation is a theory created by fools who want to believe their feelings are so strong that they transcend time.”

“It would be nice, though,” one of Sylvain’s eyebrows curves upwards. 

“To live again? I disagree.”

Sylvain’s expression remains the same, prompting Felix to elaborate. 

“If this much sorrow is the norm, one life is more than enough.” 

“If one’s feelings were more powerful than time,” Sylvain finishes his original thought. The fire casts long, black shadows across Felix’s face, angular but soft in the low light, like there’s still a youthfulness clinging to his cheeks and jaw. He looks so alive and so withered and so beautiful all at once. 

“It’s not possible,” Felix insists, “What would possibly make someone want to do this again?”

“We’re not talking about possibilities, Felix, we’re talking about theoreticals.” 

“Sylvain,” Felix’s fingers curl around the back of his own neck, plays with the few loose strands of hair there, and finally drops to the floor where he had moved to sit, little fight left within him. 

Yes, he thinks, if he were to collapse upon the steps of the castle and feign illness, Dimitri would believe him without question. 

“Felix,” Sylvain echoes, “If one felt love so strongly, perhaps the suffering is less.”

“It’s dark,” Felix mutters. The portrait looks nothing like Sylvain; Felix would liken it to a blind person describing the town’s local skirt-chaser, “I’m going to bed.”

“Very well,” says Sylvain, and settles back into the chaise, “have the loveliest of dreams, Duke Fraldarius.”

Felix hovers a moment, but leaves before he says something he’ll regret. 

“Could you put out the fire?” 

Sylvain wags one finger in the direction of the hearth, drawing the flame back into his palm where it originated. In a few mere seconds, the fire is out. Felix’s movements are slow, uncoordinated, not embarrassingly drunk but it requires much focus and balance to make it up the staircase to his room, Sylvain watching him the entire time to ensure he makes it to his room safely. 

And yet, Sylvain’s feet betray him and follow Felix’s path until he’s standing in front of the door to his bedroom, an improvement from the first time they met and he was outside the front door. He knocks once, and Felix opens the doors with such vigor that he must have been waiting for Sylvain’s arrival. 

Most of his clothing is missing. His hair is down, waves of navy blue pooling in the dip of his collarbone. There’s an imprint of where the elastic held his hair up in its usual bun. 

“I...” Sylvain says dumbly. He didn’t plan this out. 

“Come in,” Felix says, not bothering to alter his voice to sound nonchalant. 

Sylvain steps forth, crossing the threshold. Felix does not move. Sylvain takes another step, the proximity between the two closing rapidly. One more, their chests almost touch. Felix lifts one hand, encloses it around Sylvain’s shoulder. He can hear each inhale, each exhale, each wave of his tongue. 

Felix’s face hovers centimeters from Sylvain’s. But his head ducks, locates itself elsewhere because the idea of kissing Sylvain, kissing a demon, still overwhelms him. 

“It sickens me,” Felix says with his face pressed into the expanse of Sylvain’s clavicle, nose brushing against the exposed skin where his neck meets the hem of his clothes. Sylvain cannot see anything but the top of his navy hair, but he knows Felix’s lips are trembling around the words he chooses not to say, and he lets out a shaking, audible breath, “how terribly I want you.”

“Oh, Felix,” Sylvain gives a bout of laughter into the crown of Felix’s head, cradling his skull with his large, beast-like hands. He guides Felix’s head back to rest in his palms, navy hair caught on the corners of his lips, and cheeks flushed dark, “Don’t be silly. I’m right here.” 

“I feel you,” Felix’s voice, through dry and cracked lips, aches with hurt, “everywhere. You’re in my core. You’re my sheets, my bathwater, my sword.”

Sylvain runs the pad of his thumb along Felix’s bottom lip, and the only sound is Felix’s heavy breathing, the sound of him sucking his bottom lip between his teeth. Sylvain makes a soft hum of acknowledgment, like he can’t choose between closing the distance between himself and Felix, or letting him continue. 

“You’ve ripped your way into my soul— You smother me,” Felix says, lacking accusation, and his eyes flutter closed, “until I cannot breathe. I am drowning in you, devoured by a demon’s spell. A black stain on my soul...”

“Have you finished monologuing?” Sylvain questions, “Or will you continue to not ask of me what you want?”

“What the hell have you done to me…?” Felix’s mutters, then looks up, amber pupils blown incredibly wide and he demands, “Kiss me.”

“I would like nothing more,” Sylvain bows his head, lets his lips hover above Felix’s, “Is a kiss all you desire? Tell me now.” 

“You already know the answer to that. I want it all.” 

“Then,” Sylvain declares, breath hardly above a whisper, “I will kiss you. But I will do it over, and over, and over. As much as I would like.” 

Against his lips, Sylvain tastes like honeysuckle, and while Felix has never been fond of sweets, he supposes he can make an exception. In his throat, Felix feels a whimper beg to be released, but instead, sinks his teeth into his own bottom lip to keep it held inside when Sylvain momentarily pulls away. Sylvain lifts him up with ease, Felix’s knees bent over Sylvain’s arm, with his arms circled around his neck. Sylvain carries Felix over to his bed, ready to unmake the duvet and the sheets and the pillows. 

“How long has it been since you have been with another man?” Sylvain lies back into Felix’s down pillows and pulls upwards on the hem of Felix’s clothing, intricate no longer, replaced with sleeping clothes that are easy to lift off. 

“Wyvern Moon,” Felix admits, “it was an embarrassing encounter. I do not wish to speak of it.” 

Felix’s torso is taut, littered with scars of all shapes and lengths. There’s a deep one on his left arm, the skin visibly raised, puckered and pink and white. Without thinking, Sylvain kisses it, kisses the one beside it, smaller and more of a star-like shape, then kisses the burn scar below his elbow on his forearm. There’s an unidentifiable taste that lingers on Felix’s skin, or perhaps it’s Felix’s skin itself that has Sylvain unable to do anything else; he must savor every inch of Felix. 

“Embarrassing,” Sylvain repeats, and Felix feels a smug grin against his skin, “and you don’t want to talk about it... Who could it have been?”

“The war had just ended. Put the pieces together,” Felix huffs, and shifts down on the bed until he’s able to help Sylvain out of his breeches. While Felix works on the laces of Sylvain’s trousers, Sylvain removes his jackets, tossing them off the bed without a care. Felix looks good like this, maddeningly gorgeous with his hair down and his face between Sylvain’s legs, gazing up at him. 

“King Dimitri?”

Sylvain’s grin is annoyingly crooked when Felix’s face burns a bright scarlet, unsure if it’s from the implication that he was, just a few months ago, intimate with the king, or Sylvain’s half-nakedness. Or the fact that it was true, fueled by the war’s end and his terrible emotions towards Dimitri. 

“I said I don’t want to talk about it,” Felix grumbles, “You don’t listen to a word I say, do you?”

“Only for convenience’s sake,” Sylvain admits, carding his fingers through Felix’s hair, absentminded and intentional simultaneously. 

“Hopeless. Impossible,” Felix mutters. 

Felix soon crawls into Sylvain’s lap like an animal to its master, and there are one thousand things he wants to say. One thousand and one things he should say.

“Are you certain?” Sylvain asks before Felix can even think of stringing a sentence together. 

“More than I have ever been,” Felix answers, then swallows, and it’s loud in his ears. A part of him waits for Sylvain to push him off, toss him to the ground. Instead, he recaptures his lips and pulls him flush against him by his thighs. 

Sylvain gathers Felix’s trousers in his hands and tugs them below his waist. Felix gasps quietly against his mouth as he guides him to reposition himself, one leg on either side of Sylvain’s thighs, and the pressure between Felix’s legs is more than pleasurable. He kisses down Felix’s neck. His clavicle. His sternum. Further. Lower. 

The fireplace burns hot against Sylvain’s back, while Felix wraps a leg around his waist and reflexively clenches around him, scalding and wet and dripping with oil. 

“Look at yourself,” Sylvain murmurs into the crevice of Felix’s neck, where his skin is hot and his blood beckons Sylvain closer every time his heart pulses. He plants one kiss, two, three, sucks for a moment then soothes the blossoming bruise with the flat of his tongue, “how you come apart.”

“No,” Felix’s voice sounds strained, and Sylvain begins to shift backwards at the response until Felix tugs him closer with more force than earlier, “tell me.” 

The response pulls a ghost of a laugh from Sylvain’s throat, raspy and momentary, and his fingers tighten around Felix’s waist. Felix’s thighs cant upwards slowly, deliberately, his face remains unreadable but he exhales heavily, overwhelmed. Felix’s lips are swollen and as red as the flowers in the gardens, and he feels so *so* full, consumed by Sylvain in his entirety.

“Tell you what?” Sylvain teases quietly, “How you open up so easily for me? How you feel like you were _fucking_ made for me?” 

Felix loses his resolve; his head falls backward and lands on the down pillows that prop him up, and Sylvain’s shallow push-and-pulls draw a groan out from his throat. Sylvain’s tongue, feeling oddly forked and white-hot, licks at the sensitive spot of Felix’s neck, just below his jugular. 

“Fuck,” Felix groans eloquently, moving in time with Sylvain, to meet him in the middle.

“So good,” Sylvain says in an exhale, quietly, against Felix’s skin, “you feel so fucking good.”

Felix comes with his face in the crook of his arm and his eyes shut tight, a string of expletives tumbling out from his lips. He’s panting, flushed pink and red, and Sylvain finishes soon after, burning hot to the touch. 

He stays the night in Felix’s bed, and then the night after that. And then the night after that. 

Within days, Sreng invades Gautier. Felix knows this from a warning letter he received. Nothing to be too worried about, but keep the troops in good shape and be ready for anything. No need to deploy for the front lines just yet. 

A day after the letter comes, Sylvain appears, perches himself on the balustrade outside Felix’s window. Felix sips at a steaming cup of coffee, having decided to try it again at Hubert’s behest. It’s too bitter, the taste sticking to the back of his throat. 

“I’ve received word that Sreng is in Gautier,” Felix tries to sound nonchalant, “Will you go?”

“My apologies, Felix. But I must.”

“Fine.”

Felix doesn’t understand. Sylvain may be a Gautier by name and half-birthright, but according to the law, he’s been dead for a decade. Not only that, but how are demons obligated to do anything!? Do they even have morals?!

It’s childlike of him to ask, a dash embarrassing too, “Will you come to the reunion?”

“I was not a part of your class.”

“That may be so” Felix looks anywhere but at Sylvain, feels the warmth of the coffee against his palms, too hot, “I need you there. With me.” 

“All right. I will meet you in Fhirdiad.”

“Thank you,” Felix says, relieved.

“May I ask something of you? It’s quite selfish.”

Nods.

“How do I make you feel?”

“I… oh, Felix,” Sylvain croons, stroking Felix’s hair, “When we are together, I am equal parts happy and terrified. I feel comfort that I never knew existed, like you are a kitten upon my lap and I am a house husband who has just finished his chores.” 

“You speak as if we are married,” Felix sighs, then allows his temple to rest on Sylvain’s shoulder, “if that is the case, we’re doing things out of order.”

Sylvain strokes a lock of Felix’s hair, tucking it behind his ear where it belongs, “So now you enjoy the thought of marriage?”

Felix looks at the floor. He should clean it soon. It’s been a while. 

“I didn’t say that. Don’t put words in my mouth.”

Sylvain exhales a laugh, and gathers Felix into his arms. Quelling the Sreng resistance shouldn’t take long. Sylvain will be back before Felix knows it. 

“I’ll miss you,” Sylvain says into Felix’s hair, muffled. He gets a strand or two in his mouth. 

“Don’t,” Felix stops him, “you’re not a sap. And it won’t be long.”

Felix‘s gaze casts itself upon the outdoors, at the pink blossoms in full bloom and the multi-coloured lilies. The scent seems to be everywhere. 

“Look at me,” Sylvain says, “promise me you’ll be safe.”

“I should be the one saying that to you.”

“It will take more than a resistance to kill me, Felix.” 

Felix’s chin drops, and his lips pull downwards, “I’ll see you in Fhirdiad.” 

**iii. the reunion**

Sylvain is not coming. He’s not here and he’s not coming and Felix is this close to ripping his hairs out one by one. He should be angry, livid, devastated, but he just feels stupid. What idiot trusts a demon! What idiot sleeps with and allows a demon into his home?! Felix must have lost his head. What if Sylvain never existed in the first place, and it was incomprehensible loneliness that caused him to hallucinate the past six months?

“I’m going mad,” Felix whispers to himself, clenching his fists and willing himself to not bury his face in his palms. A holy knight escorts him to the reception hall like Felix doesn’t know the castle layout like the back of his hand. Like he didn’t chase Dimitri down this very corridor. 

“Thanks,” he says, voice rather curt, when they arrive at the hall. 

Castle Blaiddyd has always been an uncommon sort of ornate, stone and iron and deep shades of blue. He feels like a puppet, the way he regulates his own breathing and collects a flute of something from a passerby and tries to match faces to names. Wasn’t this supposed to be a small gathering? Why are there at least one hundred people present? Felix downs the flute, grimaces, and sets it down on the nearest surface. Nobody approaches him. It’s like they look right through him. It feels like he’s seventeen-nearly-eighteen again and his skin sets itself alight. There’s an impulse to leave, to go to the Blaiddyd training hall and talk to the ghost of his brother who lingers there, and he’s just about to pivot before a hand on his shoulder stops him.

“If it isn’t Duke Fraldarius,” Claude von Riegan-- King Riegan-- King Khalid? Felix isn’t sure, squeezes his shoulder, “It’s been too long.” 

“Hello,” Felix says stiffly, distracted by the loose curls that frame Claude’s face and the intricate clothing he wears, regal and shimmering gold, “feels like years.”

“It can’t have been that long!” Felix can never discern whether Claude is putting on an act, or if he truly means to sound incredulous, “You know, we’ve missed you during--” 

“It’s not war council anymore,” Felix wishes he had more to drink, mentally chastising himself for finishing it so quickly he no longer has something to do with his hands, “I‘m allowed to send a subordinate.” 

“I suppose,” Claude frowns, the sparkle in his emerald eyes dulling. They’ve always had an unconventional relationship, Felix having wormed his way under Claude’s skin during the year they spent at school together. He might have considered Claude his closest friend, one that came with a few benefits, too. 

“That doesn’t mean I don’t miss seeing your scowling little face as we hear… foolish suggestions,” Claude says as his warm hand encloses around Felix’s, switching out his empty glass with one that’s full. The gesture causes the corners of Felix’s lips to twitch upwards, and the glimmer returns to Claude’s eyes. 

“Have you considered,” Felix says under his breath, so nobody can hear, “those suggestions are the reason I chose not to attend?”

“Now, that’s unfair. Why do I get to suffer while you stay in the comfort of your estate?”

“You’re just lucky,” Felix shrugs, just as Lorenz rounds his shoulder to attach himself to Claude’s hip, leaving the scent of roses in his wake. It’s pleasant, but causes Felix to miss the subtle scent of Sylvain he’s grown accustomed to. Lorenz seems taller, violet hair tied into an intricate blend of a braid and bun at the nape of his neck and ears decorated with golden studs. He wears similar clothing as Claude, and Felix’s eyes widen at the realization. 

“Wait a moment,” Claude’s eyes lock upon the decoration on Felix’s coat, the lion brooch he kept for special occasions, “did Hilda make this?

“Darling,” Lorenz says, already half-drunk, pulling Claude’s attention to himself, “have you seen the professor? I brought that bouquet Mari’ put together, but…” 

Felix stops listening, choosing to slip away the moment Claude diverts his attention to Lorenz. Claude is right, he thinks, he shouldn’t have to suffer alone at diplomacy briefings, but it’s much easier to stay in bed or tend the garden than it is to travel to Fhirdiad every other moon. Lost in his thoughts, Felix doesn’t notice as he brushes against the professor-- archbishop--, whose arm is hooked in Dimitri’s. 

“Felix,” she says almost monotonously, “Hello. It is good to see you.”

Felix clears his throat, “Likewise, professor.” 

“How many times must she ask you to call her Byleth?” asks Dimitri, and his voice sends a shock through Felix’s veins. 

He can’t do this. Dimitri does not sound angry, in fact, it sounds like he’s teasing, but Felix thinks that’s hardly appropriate all things considered. Things being considered include: the last time Felix and Dimitri saw each other it had been an intimate affair behind locked doors in the previous Archbishop’s room at Garreg Mach, their complicated-- Felix dare call it painful-- past, the fact that Dimitri looks at him with nothing but loyalty and admiration in his ocean blue eye. 

“Excuse me,” Felix answers, and presses forward until he’s alone in the corridor. 

No one will notice his absence, not when there are two kings and an archbishop to entertain in the same room, who would notice the absence of a simple duke? Claude will likely take note, but he won’t go out of his way to find Felix. Goddess, Felix thinks as he runs a hand down his face, he has to compose himself. He’s got to stop acting like a child, a younger brother, a forgotten son. So he takes a few moments to himself in solitude, touches the stone of the castle and lets the scent of wet rock take him back to his youth. 

Beneath his eyelids he sees Ingrid carrying blackberries in the skirt of her white dress, sees the royal blue bow that’s been tied into Dimitri’s golden hair, sees himself reach out to unwind it, but misses at the last moment. Dimitri notices, giggles behind his fingers, and undoes the bow himself, placing it in Felix’s hands, so much smaller than his own. He stares at the piece of fabric until it morphs into a black tendril, oily and covered in its own slime and writhing like it has a mind of its own. In front of him no longer stand his childhood friends, replaced by a creature bound into the shape of a man by thick armor. The sight comforts Felix, reminds him of being appreciated and cared for. What sort of twisted dream is this? 

He opens his eyes. Sylvain is not coming. Felix should return home. 

Claude finds him some minutes later, pacing up and down the corridor, trying to calm himself to no avail. 

“What’s got you so troubled?” Claude questions, guiding Felix’s palm away from where it’s covering his eyes. Felix doesn’t have an answer for him. There are hundreds of things that will trouble Felix until after his death, so he gives Claude only an expression of shame. 

Claude gives Felix his space, which is exactly the opposite of what Sylvain would do. Sylvain would gather Felix into his arms and keep him there as long as he felt necessary, and Felix would feel more protected than ever. It’s difficult, letting people in. 

“Perhaps I can help ease your anxieties. Something wondrous happened to me during Blue Sea Moon. Would you care to hear it?”

“Fine,” says Felix, anxiety replacing itself with disappointment. Claude smiles, and this time, it reaches his eyes.

“I awoke one night to the sound of my wyverns thrashing about. Now, I know you haven’t visited Almyra, or the palace yet, but the wyvern stables are quite far from my sleeping quarters. Of course, being myself, I went to inspect, see what was going on. Can you guess what I found?”

“What’s that?” Felix tries his best to sound disinterested. 

“Nothing. I searched, I waited for hours, Felix. Until the hot sun rose. And there was nothing there. Then, I retired to my personal wing, and waiting for my return was the strangest person. Said he knew an old friend of mine, a Duke in the heart of Faerghus.” 

“Imagine that.”

“We talked for a long while. Got along quite well. He told me about a dream he’d been having in which he was disowned and killed. Only after his death, did he find his true love. He wanted me to tell you something, should he not appear tonight. Truth be told, I don’t think it was a mere fable, nor was he a person. Some sort of creature. Is that a strange thing to say?”

“To some, it might be. What was it he wanted me to hear?”

“Felix Hugo Fraldarius,” Claude cuts in front of Felix, turning to face him, chest to chest, lucky he has the height advantage as he pointedly looks down at Felix, “are you romantically involved with a demon?”

“I—“ 

“Woah,” comes a familiar voice, a voice Felix has been yearning to hear once more, “am I interrupting something?”

Felix whips his head around so quickly that if his hair were not bound in a bun, it would have hit Claude’s cheek sharply, “Sylvain...!”

“No,” Claude answers, taking a step backwards, “Nice to see you again, Sylvain.”

“Likewise.” 

Nobody speaks. Felix chews on the inside of his cheek. 

“I know when I’ve overstayed my welcome,” says Claude, “I trust I’ll see you two later.”

With that, Claude retreats to presumably find Lorenz, or Dimitri, and expose Felix for suffering from hysteria. Or, he’ll keep the pocket of knowledge for a later time. Felix doesn’t dwell on it, though, choosing to throw his arms around Sylvain and feel the heat around his middle.

“What took you so long?”

“I got this for you,” Sylvain explains, producing a long hairpin in his palm, silver and blue and decorated with a deep sapphire charm, “it took longer than expected.”

“Oh,” Felix says dumbly, “Thank... you.” 

“Do you like it?”

“Obviously,” Felix scowls, “put in my hair for me.”

Sylvain carefully unwinds Felix’s hair from its bun, and twists the navy locks until they’re taut, and slides the stick in one side and out the other.

“You lied to me,” Felix says, matter-of-fact, “you forged a letter.”

Sylvain’s hands still, tense in Felix’s hair, “... Are you angry?”

“A little,” Felix says honestly, “I don’t understand why.”

“I had much time to think while I was gone,” Sylvain explains, “Felix, I want… I want to stay with you. What is standing in the way of that?”

“Your own stupidity,” Felix frowns, “My stubborn nature. The fact that you’re a demon.”

“Felix. Look at me.”

When Felix turns his head, he expects to gaze into those black holes he has come to know so well. In their places are auburn eyes, glistening and lit from within and the colour of bright amber. More than that, Sylvain is shorter, his hands a normal size, and he smells of pine and cloves. 

“I don’t understand,” Felix murmurs as Sylvain brushes a stray lock of hair behind Felix’s ear.

“Would you prefer me as a man?”

“No,” Felix answers honestly, “Looking at you like this, it’s… gross.”

Sylvain laughs and it is the most precious sound to Felix’s ears, and in a confusing moment, a plume of black mist emerges from the floor. Felix falls to his left, dizzy, and once Sylvain has steadied him by holding his arm tightly, shakes his head to regain his balance. His typical appearance has returned, scalding flesh and all. 

“Oh, good,” Felix allows his fingers to be interlaced with Sylvain’s, “It wasn’t real.”

“No. So I will ask you one more time: what is standing in the way of you and I together?

“Nothing,” Felix grants, “of importance.”

“Then I must warn you-- if you are to cut me open, and examine my insides,” Sylvain says, each word purposeful, deliberate, “you would find maggots, roaches, and poisonous snakes.”

Sylvain anticipates sending a shiver down Felix’s spine, waiting for his eyes to drop. Instead, Felix makes a weary face and half-heartedly shoves at Sylvain’s chest, surprised his bones don’t rattle within, “Don’t try to scare me. You know I won’t push you away.”

“You’d be the first.”

His words cause Felix to tuck himself under Sylvain’s arm, hold him as close and tight as he possibly can, until Sylvain rests his cheek on the top of Felix’s head. 

“You know I plotted with Claude too, right? He suggested you would like the hairpin.”

“I figured as much. He wouldn’t leave me alone earlier.”

“I’m sure he has some questions for you. You should introduce me to everyone after he’s done.” 

“I’ll get right on that,” Felix grumbles, but allows Sylvain to guide him back into the party. 

Later in the evening, after Sylvain has met Felix’s former classmates and encouraged Felix to speak privately with Dimitri over the coming days, Felix perches on the edge of the bed and slowly begins to undress. His coat goes first, carelessly slipping off the silk sheets and onto the rug. Sylvain watches with a piqued interest, Felix’s coquettish actions having caught his attention, satisfied like a lion after its feast. Felix tugs his turtleneck off from the neckline. He snakes out of the garment which lands next to the coat, and leans back, balancing his weight on one wrist. That minx. 

“I never stayed in this wing as a child,” Felix says, and with his free hand, he slides the pin from his hair, To see Felix from Sylvain’s eyes would allow the viewer to observe that gleaming, honey gaze, the one that’s illuminated by orange flames. But Sylvain thinks this sight should be reserved only for himself. 

“Is that so?,” Sylvain asks, “Who stayed here, then?” 

“Our parents. Ingrid, my brother, and I... we always snuck out to sleep in Dimitri’s room.”

“I’m sure he liked that. But you’re not suggesting...?”

“Don’t be sick,” Felix tosses his breeches at Sylvain, “you know that’s not what I’m getting at.” 

“Hey,” Sylvain laughs, shrugging, “humans are full of surprises.” 

“You don’t have to worry about that with me,” Felix affirms, glances at Sylvain’s thighs, then his eyes flit away. Noticing this, Sylvain pulls Felix into his lap and lets a hand encircle his hip. 

“Good,” Sylvain says, “I think I’d like something normal for once.”

The corners of Felix’s mouth pull upwards, and Sylvain, feeling emboldened and finally happy, guides Felix into a kiss. 

**iv. the end**

_Little is known about the relationship between the duke Felix Fraldarius and his lover, only the name ‘Sylvain’ can be observed, no surname. It is said that after their union, Felix became much more vocal during diplomacy, and rekindled his friendship with King Dimitri, though it took many years. While Sylvain and Felix did not have children, they had an exciting relationship, during which they traveled across Fódlan and beyond. Felix was particularly fond of Dagda._

_There were many rumors and theories surrounding Sylvain’s existence, some suggesting he was not entirely human. In the early 1200s, Felix abandoned the estate, and disappeared with Sylvain shortly after. Notably, after their disappearance, many pieces of Felix’s writings were found, some autobiographical, and some fictional. They can be found in the archives of Garreg Mach Monastery. There are no leads to suggest where they may have gone, save a permanently charred patch of grass in the Fraldarius gardens._

**Author's Note:**

> couple of things: 
> 
> 1\. ok so basically... sylvain's dad is margrave gautier and his mommy is some random lady (not the margrave's wife/miklan's mommy) BUT he has a crest so they pretended he died but he actually didn't and miklan hated him so he killed him. sylvain also faked the letter to felix about sreng being attacked, then met with claude to learn more about felix, as his feelings towards felix scared him. 
> 
> 2\. pacing? i don't know her. an expansive vocabulary? i also don't know her. i'm not even into fe3h anymore but i refuse to start on other fics before posting this. 
> 
> 3\. i absolutely refuse to edit this i'm so god damn tired of looking at this piece please excuse any spelling mistakes or random symbols or anything i'm sorry i've been working on this since november 2019 and i'm tired! goodnight


End file.
